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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26058427">The Death of the Archivist</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrushDog/pseuds/BrushDog'>BrushDog</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist Basira Hussain, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Tape Recorders, Character Death, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Graphic Description of Injuries, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Martin Blackwood making bad decisions, Misbehaving tape recorders, Obscure Star Wars References, The Lonely - Freeform, The Spiral, The Stranger - Freeform, Tim Stoker Lives (The Magnus Archives), Tim Stoker makng bad decisions, the vast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:02:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26058427</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrushDog/pseuds/BrushDog</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon dies in the Unknowing. The assistants are freed, but that doesn't stop the plans already set in motion.</p><p>A Tim lives, Jon dies AU take on Season 4.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eventual Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello and welcome to my self-indulgent little MarTim AU. This whole thing was inspired by the line in episode 167 about how assistants could be free of the Archive if the Archivist died, so I started thinking about how fun and interesting things would get if Jon died.</p><p>The title is a reference to Roland Barthes's The Death of the Author because Jonny Sims is the Archivist and Jonny Sims is the author and it's my fanfic so I get to do what I want!</p><p>Also a big thank you to my lovely betas Nishi, Rho, and Masami.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The world was undone around him. It was molded soft by wax and skin, giving a dull shine that lit the stage before him. Eyes melted under the heat of the lights, gazing out at him from where they ran down cheeks and jaws, gathering into puddles against the dusty ceiling. His legs were nothing, so they gave out, collapsing him onto center stage, an unwilling participant in the show that had to go on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His throat bubbled and a shout snuck out between his ribs, tumbling with him across the polished wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh hello, Archivist, so good of you to join us!" The melody of another voice joined in with the piping of the frenzied organ's song spinning through his eardrums.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What--who--" he stammered, because the vowels twisted too long, the constants too crisp and even to be any kind of language he understood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Now, don't you recognize me?" the voice asked, modulating and twisting with each word, until it seized on the pinprick of recognition that left the Archivist's hairs pressing out against his skin in a desperate try for escape. "It's me, it's Tim."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tim," he echoed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There had once been a face to match that name, but that face was nothing but wrong angles, a nose and eyes that made no sense now. The Archivist writhed, turning to fight the pressure of his lungs rolling with thunderous beats against his chest. Sharp edges dug into what had been a palm and he turned to stare at a device that was no more human than he was now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's right, Tim," the voice crooned over him. "Why don't I help you up?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Help me..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words collided with his skull, reflected back onto him with a burning pressure building behind his eyes. The unreality of the world around him sharpened, his senses grabbing memories, words and meanings, stringing them together as quickly as they fled from him, but it was enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His name was Jon. The voice that spoke to him was not Tim, but Nikola Orsinov. He lay sprawled out on his hands and knees on a stage made in a wax museum rigged with enough explosives to destroy it all, to stop the Unknowing that pressed against the edges of his senses like a chain wound above him, dragging him under.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Help you?" Nikola asked, every word hitting him like a physical blow, pulling and tearing at the small reality he had built for himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't need your help," the Archivist hissed between clenched teeth and pulled the trigger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, tendering his resignation to the Magnus Institute was not the grand celebration that Tim Stoker had hoped it would be. He had fantasized about it enough times to have a laundry list of options for consideration. A simple "Fuck you all," sent to every email in the system, a flaming bag of dog shit left on Elias Bouchard's desk. The inability to actually separate himself from the institute hadn't done much to stem his imagination on the subject. But when he'd come to in a hospital bed, bruised and bloodied but somehow still alive, none of those options carried the same appeal they'd once had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin was the first to visit as the bearer of bad news. Tim could see it written on his face as soon as slumped into the plastic hospital chair, bloodshot eyes downcast, hands curled in his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The painkillers did a lot to dull the single minded rage that had been driving Tim for months on end, and more than that he didn't really feel like being an ass to Martin in this particular moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How bad?" he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's--bad," Martin stammered in reply, his gaze still fixed firmly on the fraying thread on the hem of his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim sighed, letting his eyes fall closed as he collapsed back onto the scratchy hospital pillows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's hear it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, Basira...she got out. Not really a scratch on her," he started, fingers twisting together in his lap. "Daisy--they, well, we don't know what's happened to her. They couldn't find a body. And Jon..." Martin stopped, his voice suddenly thick. He swallowed past it, fingers clenched tightly together. "Jon's. Jon's gone. The explosion, it--he's gone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck him," Tim exhaled. He tried to find grief or anger or something to match with the words, but the only feeling left gnawing at the pit of his stomach felt suspiciously like emptiness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tim--" Martin started, a plea cut off as the door to Tim's room swung open again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, so you're awake."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice of Elias Bouchard was not what Tim wanted to hear right now. No amount of painkillers could stop the headache that was sure to bring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I trust that Martin's filled you in on our current situation--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, shut it," Tim groaned, trying to bury himself further in his pillows to escape from all this bullshit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I beg your pardon?" Elias asked, his tone as prim and polite as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You heard me, piss off," Tim spat back with as much vitriol as he could muster. "Whatever you've got to say, you can shove it. I don't give a damn about you and your stupid institute anymore. I quit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause. A moment where Tim expected Elias to go back on one of his friendly little chats about the futility of leaving or some bullshit like that. Instead, he just sighed, like some put upon, disappointed father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I see," he said. "I'll see to getting the paperwork sorted."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, he left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim blinked, staring at the closed door as it came back into focus. He turned to Martin, looking for some sort of confirmation of what he'd just heard, but Martin was just staring back, utterly baffled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What...just happened...?" Martin asked, uncertainty catching the words in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your guess is as good as mine," Tim said, turning to stare back up at the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I mean--I mean he sounded like he was actually going to let you go."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's what it sounded like to me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As in--leave the Institute. As in do the one thing we all thought was impossible?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Tim said. He paused, drawing in a slow, heavy breath. "You think he's trying to kill me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What--?" Martin sounded way more shocked by that than he had any right to be, but Tim didn't want to peel open that particular wound at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I tried to goad him into it before. After he told me we couldn't leave," Tim said, with the nonchalance only brought on by copious painkillers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tim you--what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Didn't think he'd actually take me up on it." Tim shrugged as much as he could without jarring his bandages. "But maybe he's had a change of heart."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tim--Tim that's not funny."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim paused, some biting remark about Elias dying on his lips as he turned to glance at Martin. His eyes were screwed up, shining in that way that meant he was probably only seconds away from breaking out into ugly sobs. His hands were gripped at the edge of Tim's hospital bed, knuckles white and shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Tim didn't feel like making any kind of glib commentary about Elias, or the Institute, or his surely impending death. He ducked his head, swallowing against the tightness that had built at the back of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin sniffled, his voice wet, but he was clearly holding it together as best he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just--don't joke about something like that. Please. Not now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I won't, I promise," Tim said, softening his tone. He reached over, patting one hand against Martin's in a gesture he'd hoped would be comforting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin seemed to take it that way, taking in a slow breath through his mouth before giving a small nod of acknowledgement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't mention it," Tim said, letting his hand linger. He figured Martin probably needed the contact, as broken up about this as he was. "It doesn't seem like the kind of thing Elias would pull anyway. Maybe--this time we really can leave."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You don't think it's because . . . " Martin trailed off, and Tim knew well enough to know why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Could be," he said. "But if it is, you'd better take the chance to get the hell out yourself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin ducked his head. He pulled his hand away from Tim's, fingers worrying at the hem of his shirt again. "I...maybe. I'll think on it, I guess."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Martin, I'm serious." Tim pushed himself up, injuries be damned, and grabbed at both of Martin's wrists. "Get the hell out of there. You don't owe that place anything. And you've seen what that job will do to you if you're not careful."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment before Martin's reply stretched thin on the sterile air of the hospital. Tim could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, the steps of nurses passing in the hallway. He squeezed his hands at Martin's wrists in a tight pulse, trying to prompt an answer out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin stammered, his hands fidgeting with uncertainty before he turned his face up, meeting Tim's gaze evenly with a rough breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right--I'll go."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first order of business once Tim had escaped the hospital with a clean bill of health was obviously a holiday. He needed the time away, he needed to get out of London, to stop thinking about the Institute, about Danny, and about what it meant now that it was all over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't have a lot in savings, so traveling on a budget unfortunately meant he couldn't get far, but about a year ago he'd heard about the dark sky reserves, some of the best spots for stargazing in the world. There were a handful nearby, and one in Ireland that promised a chance to get in a visit to Skellig. Really, he'd be an idiot to pass up the chance to visit an ancient Jedi temple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One benefit of not dying in a suicidal revenge plot meant he might even get to see the second movie come December. Though it was difficult to find excitement in something so trivial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A week later, Tim had a room to himself at the Skellig Lodge and a promise of islands, night skies, and surfing to fill the next few days. The promise, however, didn't seem very keen on delivering. Sure, the islands were gorgeous. The waves at St. Finian's Bay weren't too shabby either. But every moment that Time found himself alone, every time the silence stretched between the crashing of the waves or the hush of the small village fell around him, he felt uneasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew what it was. He'd spent the past four years on the trail of the circus, trying to make them pay for what they'd done to Danny. Now it was done. They'd paid, their ritual was foiled. Though Tim had a hand in it himself, there was something sour in the thought that he hadn't been the one to pull the trigger. Something heavy tugged at the bottom of his gut each time he remembered that they'd lost someone in the effort, someone Tim had once thought of as a friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim couldn't think of Jon the same way anymore. He wasn't one to think ill of the dead, but he hardly felt that Jon's death should give him absolution. He'd deserved the anger Tim directed at him, deserved every bit of that mistrust and indignation for how much of an ass he'd made of himself leading up to the Unknowing. But the wellspring of hatred and hurt that had fed that anger came up empty now. As much as Tim wanted to curse Jon's name for taking the plunge, he knew he would've done the same if he'd been in that situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All it left was a numbness. A deep, empty feeling gnawing at the back of Tim's throat. It sucked the joy and excitement straight out of everything he did. He couldn't even sleep. He'd spend entire days climbing, surfing, and hiking up and down the Irish coastline, then drag himself back into the hostel bed only to spend hours staring up at the blank ceiling, his mind full of static, too restlessly full of noise to calm down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After three nights of tossing and turning, he'd had enough. He threw on a jacket against the night chill and snuck his way out of the hostel and down the road to the empty beaches below. Most of the stargazing tours were long gone, the town around him hushed with sleep. The waning moon overhead was the only light, standing out against the brilliant canvas of stars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was incredible, in its own way. For as much as Tim had seen the world in his travels and exploits, stargazing wasn't really one of his fancies, so he didn't often take the time to pause and consider the night sky. But here, so far removed from the bright lights of the cities and civilization, it was impossible not to. Just standing on the sands of the beach, the surf a steady lull in his ears, it drew him in. He tilted his head back, breathing in the chilly salt air, seeing nothing above him but the endless lights of space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, it changed. Something shifted, a lurch in Tim's stomach, the inexplicable feeling of vertigo. He tried to look down to steady himself, but there was no down. For a moment he thought he was mistaken, that he was seeing things. The reflection of the stars on the water, maybe. The moonlight glinting off the sand of the beach. That wasn't it, though. His feet were pointed down as he hung suspended in an unending sea of stars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic gripped him immediately. He knew this, he knew it. It hadn't mattered as much as the Stranger, as the circus, but he'd read enough of the other statements and done enough research to know what was happening. The Falling Titan, the Vast. Michael Crew, Simon Fairchild, he knew these things. But knowing didn't stop the dread from creeping in. Just knowing didn't keep his palms from sweating, his stomach lurching up into his throat as he fought to swallow, his breaths coming shallow and uneven.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is this some kind of joke?!" he spat out to the abyss, but the emptiness sucked the air from his lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anger fought with fear as Tim squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself back to the ground, back to the beach and the world that he knew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This isn't happening," he hissed between gritted teeth. "I just fought one of you bastards and I swear to God I'll fight as many of you as I have to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, I'm terribly sorry about all that," a voice spoke into the darkness--and it was over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim stumbled as gravity came back to him all at once, falling flat on his ass in the sand. He whipped around, turning to find himself facing a wrinkled old man with a cane, standing just a few yards away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What--" he stammered, still catching his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Just offering my apologies," the man said with a congenial smile on his face. "I thought I'd come out here to appreciate the stars. Didn't realize that I wasn't alone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim's eyes narrowed, taking in the man's appearance, what had just happened, the pieces falling together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Simon Fairchild," he said, twisting the name like a curse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well now, it's rare that I find myself in the company of someone who knows my work. I suppose I should be flattered," Simon said, tipping his head in a slight nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't be," Tim cut in, pushing himself up off the ground to brush the sand off his pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Now, now, there's no need to be cross, my boy," Simon said, clearly trying for placating. "But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Though, for one familiar with my work, I'd have to imagine that you must be in some way affiliated with the Watcher."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Formerly," Tim gave a curt reply, his nerves still on edge, his pulse still hammering in his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Formerly? That's quite a surprise. Unless of course...ah, the Archivist has passed, then? I suppose I'll need to offer Elias my condolences."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim's gaze snapped up at the mention of Elias, his nostrils flared in anger. "Are you working with him?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon lifted a hand, waving Tim's anger away as if it was nothing more than a spot of dust. "Not at all. I've never really been much of a fan of the Watcher. But call it--ah--professional courtesy. It did seem like Elias was fond of the lad."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim gave an incredulous snort. "If that's what you want to call it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fondness does take many forms, especially among our kind." Simon offered a wide smile, barely visible in the dark of the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Whatever you say." Tim's nerves were calming, his pulse crawling back to normal. He didn't want to believe what Simon said, that it was just an accident, an unfortunate set of circumstances that saw him pulled into the Vast. But as much as he knew he couldn't trust the old man, he didn't seem dangerous. At least not at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I suppose I shouldn't speak for him too much. After all, he's quite capable of pontificating upon his own opinions when given the opportunity. But where are my manners, I haven't even asked for your name."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hairs at the back of Tim's neck prickled, his shoulders taut. There didn't seem to be much harm in giving a name, but the thought of playing nice with anyone having anything to do with the Entities made the back of his throat burn with bile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It must have shown in his expression, because Simon smiled again with the same homely, soft and condescending gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise you, boy, I'm not going to do anything to you. Truly, I didn't intend to catch you up in this. I do tend to give those of the Watcher a wide berth. If you'd like, we can simply say our farewells and be on our respective ways. Now, how does that sound?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was something disarming about the way he spoke. The soft, melodic tone of his voice seemed like it was pushing for Tim to agree, to set him at ease. Tim wanted to fight it every step of the way, but it was hard to argue that there was little Simon would be able to do with a name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tim Stoker," he said at length.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There now. That wasn't so difficult, was it? I hope you have a pleasant evening, Timothy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim didn't offer a reply. He turned, quickly making his way back up to town, eyes firmly fixed on the pavement in front of him until he made it back to his room. Only then did he stop, his back pressed against the door as he slid to the floor, lungs sucking in deep, gasping breaths of air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sleep didn't come that night. In the morning, he packed his things and left for London.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira couldn't say that she was surprised by the exodus from the archives that occurred after the passing of Jon Sims. Tim was to be expected--he'd poured everything he had into stopping the circus, and with that done there was no reason for him to stick around. Melanie and Martin were reasonable assumptions. After the charges against Elias had seemingly disappeared into thin air, only an idiot would assume that they'd stick around. Trying to get your boss's boss arrested for murder didn't do well for office politics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More than once, Basira asked herself why she had bothered to stick around. She didn't have an obligation, not with Daisy among the missing following the explosion at the House of Wax, but something at the back of her mind told her that couldn't be true. Daisy wouldn't just go missing like that. Not after something that significant, not without contacting Basira in some way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira supposed that Daisy might have seen it as an out, as a way to escape Elias's threats and remove the leverage he held over both of them. Yet the more she thought on it, the more the idea seemed foolish. There wasn't any logical way to escape a man like Elias. If he knew what Daisy had done while working on the force, then simply slipping away in the wake of an explosion didn't seem like it would work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had gone down into the tunnels, on the strange, fleeting hope, that maybe she could find Daisy there. That maybe she'd been using them to escape Elias's notice the same way the rest of them had done before. It didn't produce results. The mystery of Daisy's whereabouts was still unsolved, and with it Basira found herself rooted firmly within the walls of the Institute, trapped until she could get some answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it was that only a few weeks after the explosion, Basira found herself seated in Elias's office, staring down a sheet of paperwork that she trusted about as much as the man who wrote it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can't be serious," she said, her lips drawn into a line across her face, eyes fixed pointedly on the prim and proper smile gracing Elias's face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I believe you'll find that I'm quite serious in this matter," he said, his tone pleasantly conversational. "As you know, recent events have left a vacancy within our organization, and I thought to myself, who better to fill it than yourself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you expect me to agree to this?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That is why I've presented you with the option, Detective. Or should I say--Archivist."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way the word curled on his lips made Basira want to rip them straight off. She schooled her expression to a careful neutral, her voice unwavering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That doesn't answer the question."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias gave a sigh, an overdramatic, show-off sort of gesture, but there seemed to be some hint of truth beneath it. Something Basira couldn't quite place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I expect you to make a choice, as the rest of your fellow assistants have. As I'm certain you've gathered, you are no longer beholden to this place. You're free to leave if you so desire," he said with a dismissive wave of a hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So what, you expect me to believe that's it? That you're done with us? Jon's gone so we just forget how you've been threatening us all for the past several months?" Basira gave a rough snort, with a voice that brokered no argument. "The rest of them might've wanted nothing more to do with you, but I know you're still up to something."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And what is it that you think I might be 'up to'?" Elias asked with a smile, spreading both hands wide in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira frowned, her eyes narrowed. The thought of Daisy tugged at the back of her mind and she did her best to push it away. "Haven't figured it out yet," she said, aiming for nonchalance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well then, what better way to figure it out than from right where you are, with all the archives has to offer?" Elias's lips pinched at the corner, his fingertips pressing hard against the paper on his desk as he slid it forward. "I think you'd be able to keep quite a close eye on me should you accept."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her gaze flicked down to the paper, then back up to Elias's face. She drew in a heavy breath through her nose, teeth clenched tight. There was a play here, a reason why he needed her to accept this title, this role specifically. She couldn't see it yet. She didn't know enough, but the argument he'd made for her acceptance still range true. The Institute had been a valuable asset for researching the Unknowing, and if she wanted any chance of finding what happened to Daisy, finding just what the hell Elias was planning, this was the best place to do it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine," she relented. "But I call my own shots. Don't think for a minute that I trust you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Perish the thought," Elias said with a faint grimace that was gone as quickly as it came. "That will be all, then. You can talk to Rosie about getting situated within your new office."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The abrupt change of topic caught Basira off-guard. She frowned, pushing herself to her feet to collect the papers on Elias's desk. "So that's it, then?" she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is as you say, 'you call your own shots,'" Elias said with a tight-lipped smile. "And, after all, I am a busy man with everything that I'm 'up to.' I'll call upon you should I need you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was more to it than that, Basira knew. Something unsaid that was left hanging in the air, a riddle that she couldn't see the full extent of yet, but she'd had enough of Elias Bouchard's brand of bullshit for one day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine," she said, turning to leave with a huff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before 2017, Martin Blackwood had neither owned a black suit nor had any need for one. It was partially a matter of practicality. He couldn't really afford to buy one outright, and finding anything decent in a second hand shop was another matter altogether. The other part was that he'd hardly ever had any need for one. Aside from his interview with the Institute several years back, his wardrobe had mostly consisted of second hand jumpers, polo shirts, and other assorted casual attire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, within only a matter of months, Martin found himself in need of a black suit for reasons he hardly could have anticipated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The funeral for Jon was a quiet affair. Tim, Melanie, and Basira were in attendance, along with a few of Jon's other casual acquaintances and friends who Martin couldn't name. Martin had nearly convinced himself not to attend, terrified that maybe Elias would be there. Tim had talked him into it, though, and thankfully Elias stayed away. Yet as that certainty fully registered in Martin's mind, the choking fear and panic of even contemplating it gave way to the bitter flood of grief that they'd been holding at bay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon was gone. He'd left and he wasn't going to come back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing that Martin had asked was for him to come home, and he hadn't. His last words to Jon were a plea that had gone unanswered. Martin still had the tape, still had Jon's tape as well. He'd listened to them over and over again. Listened to Jon's rambling, his awkward stuttering and stammering over "office gossip." He must have known. If he'd listened to Martin's statements from the tapes that had been recorded when he'd been talking to Basira and Melanie in the Archives, he had to have known.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knowing didn't change anything, though. Even in his last statement, Jon had hardly done anything to acknowledge it, to indicate how he felt at all. He'd said it was "fine" in that tight, proper way of his, but none of it was fine. It wasn't fine when Martin wouldn't see his face again, wouldn't hear his voice, wouldn't have the chance to actually say how he felt or do anything about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd held the tears in for most of the funeral before dissolving into a blubbering mess in the men's toilet. Tim found him, eventually. Tim paid for his cab home, too. Numbly, Martin thought that he should say thank you, but he could only hold it together for so long, and he refused to break down crying in front of some stranger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next few weeks passed in a blur. He'd quit the Archives as soon as he realized that he could. Without Jon there, with the threat of Elias looming overhead, even the uncertainty of knowing if he'd be able to find any other work wasn't enough to stop him. But that meant putting himself on the job hunt again, draining his meager savings to make payments for his mother's care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd found something, enough to make ends meet. Some dull and lifeless desk job that didn't seem to care that his smile was forced most days, and the bags under his eyes were only getting darker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, just a little over a month later, his mother passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The black suit came in handy. A worthwhile investment. Strangely, Martin didn't even feel the need to cry, to shed any tears for his loss. It was like a weight lifted off his shoulders, one that left him floating in the dull haze that had become the world around him. The funeral passed in a blur. He couldn't even remember half of what he'd said for her eulogy, to the acquaintances who were in attendance. Martin hadn't told any of his friends. He wouldn't have wanted to see them here. They had enough to worry about on their own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a blustery, cloudy October Sunday. The sort that seemed like it should have threatened rain, but none ever fell. The kind where the damp in the air made the wind cut that much colder. They put Martin's mother in the ground, and he found himself staring at the simple headstone, utterly at a loss for anything else to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What else was there, really? For nearly twenty years of his life, she had been there, silently hating him, yet forcing every decision that he'd made. He'd dropped out, lied, struggled, and tried his hardest just to care for her. Now it was over. No more bills to pay to the home. No more strained conversations, no more bitter, loathing glances. There was nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was he supposed to do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin sucked in a tight breath, his hands clenched into fists at his side, when a familiar voice cut through his thoughts from far too close beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Such a shame. My condolences for your loss, Martin."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin jumped, his heart leaping into his throat as he turned to stare at where Peter Lukas stood, clad in black, only a step or two behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What--what are you doing here--?" Martin stammered, his tongue thick and awkward in his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter smiled, closing the distance between them until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Martin in front of his mother's grave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was back in town for a while, and I thought that I'd stop by to say hello," he said with easy familiarity. "I heard there's been some changes at the Institute lately."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So--?" Martin frowned, shuffling half a step away from the other man. "I don't see how that concerns me anymore."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, it doesn't concern you now, does it? There's quite a number of you searching for new employment, isn't there?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not--" Martin turned away, looking resolutely down at the ground. "I've got--a job. I mean, I've found something."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Very industrious of you." Peter gave a faint nod of approval. "You must have worked hard to find something so quickly."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sort of...I didn't really," Martin paused, catching his tongue between his teeth. "What does it matter to you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, as luck would have it, I actually have something of an offer for you, Martin."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You...what?" Martin caught himself casting a sideways glance in Peter's direction, jerking his gaze away when he saw Peter watching him, that easy, chipper smile spread across his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Or consider it a proposition. A wager. Does that sound better?" Peter gave a shrug of his shoulders, turning away to continue, "I do want to make sure that we start out on the right foot, here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I--I don't care what you call it," Martin stammered in answer. "Just tell me what you want."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Direct and to the point, hm? Well, to put it simply, there's something I'd like your help in looking into."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You do remember that I don't work for the Institute anymore," Martin said, giving Peter a suspicious look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And this wouldn't be work for the Institute," Peter said with an easy smile. "You'd be working for me directly. I can of course see that you're paid for it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Doing...research." There was more that was going unsaid here, Martin knew it. He knew when people were holding information from him, and he hardly trusted Peter Lukas farther than he could throw him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right you are. I can provide you supplies, an office. I'll give you all the particulars once you're started. Though, of course, if you're not interested, I could always see if there's someone else willing to take on the work. It was Tim and Melanie who worked with you, wasn't it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A jolt of panic raced up Martin's spine like the touch of ice to his skin. He held it in as well as he could, schooling his expression, but his words came tumbling out faster than he would have liked. "No--no, they're--Tim's got something. And Melanie--I don't think she'd be interested."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I suppose not. She did always seem like a feisty one. Difficult to work with, I imagine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not..." Martin paused, drawing in a bracing inhale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a threat, he knew it was a threat. If not him, then someone else. Those were the terms. He couldn't imagine that Tim or Melanie would be very agreeable, and he didn't want to think what might happen if Peter Lukas didn't get what he wanted. He'd heard the recording from Brian Finlinson. He knew well enough what Peter was capable of. Better the devil you knew, wasn't it? At least he didn't have anything left to lose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All right," he said, exhaling heavily. "All right, I'll do it. I've just got to... I've got to put in notice. With my work."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wouldn't want them thinking you've up and disappeared, would we?" Peter said with a knowing grin before turning to leave. "Two weeks, then. I'll get you the details."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait, but how do you know--" Martin turned, hoping for an answer, only to find himself once again alone under the grey October sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"...right," he said with a sigh. "Elias, probably. Or something else..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back to the headstone, the weight of what he'd just done sinking lower and lower into his gut. There wasn't really much choice in the matter. It seemed like there never was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias Bouchard was, if nothing else, a meticulous man. His plans were laid with the utmost care and precision. He prided himself on knowing just the right sort of push to give someone to spur them into action that, for all intents and purposes, they would assume was the result of their own clear judgement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To say that Elias was disappointed by the death of Jonathan Sims was an understatement. Very rarely did a gift come by so neatly and elegantly prepared as the Archivist Jonathan Sims. Elias had not intended to squander it. He had every hope of using the Archivist to his fullest potential, to at long last carry through on the plans he had laid for the better part of several centuries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet sometimes, the fickle threads of fate did not favor meticulous planning. It was a blow. A setback. A very severe disappointment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias gave a sigh, loud enough that he was certain the spinning wheels of the tape recorder positioned squarely in the center of his desk would hear it. The thing had appeared without any subtlety. One moment his desk was clear, pristine, the next the recorder had occupied it, its record button already depressed, the tape moving endlessly inside it. There was really no need for subtlety when Elias himself was involved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I must confess that I am at a loss for what to say," he said to the empty room, letting the seconds stretch out in empty silence before he continued. "The Archivist, Jonathan Sims, is dead. The official cause of death is listed as traumatic brain injury, though to limit the injury precisely to his brain does not paint the full picture."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias sat back in his chair, eyes closed, his fingers laced together as he rested both hands upon his desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"In the moments following the ignition of an explosion within the House of Wax museum intended to disrupt the Stranger's ritual, the Unknowing, the body of the Archivist was summarily crushed beneath a combination of steel rebar and concrete. The weight and force of the debris instantly crushed his skull, severed his spinal cord in several locations, punctured both lungs, broke numerous bones, and led to internal contusions and hemorrhaging that would have made his death nearly instantaneous."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused, for effect, before continuing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"When I first read the report, I had my suspicions that Forever Deep Below Creation might have had a hand in this, but the speed at which the Archivist succumbed to his trauma suggests otherwise. It was nothing more than The End that comes for us all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias opened his eyes, looking down to the slowly spinning white cogs of the machine before him, his lips pressed into a tight line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yet if accounts are to be believed, and I, for one, certainly put my trust in them, the powers that he demonstrated before his untimely end were remarkable. It was not an easy feat to resist the lure of the Stranger within their place of power, yet he performed admirably. If the injuries he had endured were less traumatic, I have doubt that even the End would have held sway over him. Whether the timing would have been correct, I suppose I'll never know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips twisted into a grimace, distaste coloring the words. He gave a shake of his head to dismiss the thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But that's neither here nor there. There's still work to be done."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He set one hand against the smooth wood of his desk, drumming his fingers absently in thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The new Archivist did perform admirably for her part in the ritual. While she would not have been my choice, she can still fulfill the necessary requirements. Retracing one's steps is never easy, particularly with Jane Prentiss no longer among the living, but there are other options available. After all, the order is not as important as the final result."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias allowed himself a faint smile. He would be more pressed for time with this attempt, if Peter was to be believed, but he was not afraid of learning from his failures.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I hope that's enough for now. I believe I have a delivery to arrange."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that he reached forward, pressing down on the button to end the recording.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tim and Martin have a talk. Basira and Tim swap conspiracies. Martin's first day at work and Tim meets a new friend.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to my lovely betas Nishi and Masami!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"So...have you found anything yet?" Martin asked as soon as he and Tim seated themselves at some cheap little Indian place for a weekend lunch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been Tim's invitation. He'd wanted to catch up, talk about some things. Though he'd been suspiciously vague over text as to exactly what those things entailed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm back in publishing," Tim said with a shrug, easygoing as always. "I didn't burn my bridges on the way out, so I called up some old contacts until I found a few places with openings. Bagged some interviews, and I'm back in the business. You?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh--yeah, I uh, I found something," Martin replied. "Just some boring desk job. But it pays the bills."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And doesn't involve any imminent attempts to end the world, I'm guessing." Tim gave a faint smirk, clearly trying to make light of their former place of employment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, nothing like that." Martin offered a faint smile in reply. "Just boring paper pushing. You know, the usual."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd thought about telling Tim about Peter, when the text first came in. But he hadn't officially started yet, so there wasn't much that he could say on the matter. He'd also thought about simply not replying, just ghosting him completely. Tim didn't seem like he'd want to be tied up in any of their old business anymore, and Martin wasn't keen on doing anything that might put him in harm's way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'd say we both deserve a little bit of boring," Tim said with a wave of his hand, which was--suspiciously enough--wrapped in gauze and bandages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right..." Martin paused, pursing his lips in thought. He'd noticed the injury when they'd first met up outside the Tube station. Tim hadn't said anything about it, so he didn't want to mention it, but now that they were both waiting on lunch it was a little hard to ignore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So," Martin spoke up, trying to sound casual. "Is that the thing you wanted to talk about?" He gave a nod towards Tim's hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, this? Not really." Tim made a grimace in recollection. "Got into a bit of a row with a girl at a club. Turns out I wasn't her type."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And she what, broke your hand?" Martin asked with an incredulous lift of his eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Burned it, actually. She was hot. I mean, literally hot." Tim gave a thoughtful frown, glancing aside. "Probably had something to do with--what were they called, The Cult of the Lightless Flame?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several pieces suddenly fell neatly together in Martin's mind as his eyes went wide, mouth hanging open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry--you accidentally hit on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jude Perry</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not what I wanted to talk about, Martin," Tim said with a frustrated huff. "Look, there's plenty of Asian girls in London. How was I to know that one was her?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She--didn't she have a tattoo? Some sort of mark?" Martin wracked his brain for the old research files they'd pulled together, though that had been almost a year ago now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Look, it was dark. I wasn't exactly paying attention. Can we leave it at that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Martin didn't know any better, he would have sworn that Tim was pouting. The sudden levity of it, the break from the dreary gray cloud that had hung over him since August caught him off guard. He gave a smile, shaking his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure, fine. But if it's not your encounter with the Desolation, what did you want to talk about...?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim's mood changed at the question. His shoulders squared as he sat up straighter, his lips set in a firm line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wanted to talk about Elias."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin's stomach dropped, his throat tightening. He tried to play it off as much as he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What did you want to talk about? We're both out now, aren't we? We're both--free, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Seems like it," Tim said with a frown, his good hand coming up to rub at the corner of his lips. "But it just feels to me like we never quite got a grip on what he was up to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you mean, what he was up to?" Martin's brow creased, his shoulders hunching with worry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean--I think he was doing something to Jon." Tim's eyes locked on Martin's, his gaze fixed and serious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The name still hit like a blow. Like an icy fist curled tight around Martin's chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs and leaving everything painfully numb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jon--" His voice cracked on the name. He swallowed and hoped that Tim hadn't noticed, but the faint, sympathetic flicker he caught in Tim's eyes told him that wasn't the case. "He's gone, Tim. Wouldn't that mean--that whatever Elias was up to wouldn't work anymore?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim drew in a slow breath, picking his words carefully given the topic at hand. "It might not work with Jon. But he's already got a replacement."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"D'you mean Basira?" Martin twisted his lips in confusion. "What's that got to do with it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know yet," Tim said, leaning back in his chair with sudden restless energy. "But it doesn't seem right. I mean, back when Gertrude went missing, we all thought Sasha would get the job. She was way more qualified. She'd put in the work for it. But when it went to Jon I just chalked it up to misogynistic bullshit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But Basira getting the job means that wasn't the reason," Martin said carefully, following the train of thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Exactly." Tim jabbed his finger at Martin in emphasis. "So if our murdering ex-boss's boss isn't some sort of prejudiced wanker on top of it, why Jon? And why Basira now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She is the only one of us who didn't leave," Martin pointed out. "Maybe it was just convenient."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Convenient to have someone who knows you're a murdering, manipulative arsehole on your staff? Does that really sound like Elias?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not sure I'm really an expert on what sounds like Elias." Martin gave a halfhearted protest, distracted by the thought that if Elias was up to something, Peter might be involved, and Peter's offer along with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, fair," Tim conceded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused a moment, working his jaw like he was trying to build himself up to something else. Martin watched, quiet, trying to work out what it might be when Tim met his gaze. He ducked away after a moment with a noisy exhale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Look, if I'm going to tell you this next part, you have to promise not to judge me for it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin's lips pursed in clear concern. "It's not as bad as what Jude Perry did to you, is it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well..." Tim drew the vowel out with a guilty drawl, his good hand running through his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tim. Tim, what did you do?" Worry was creeping over Martin's hunched shoulders like the skittering of spider's legs as he leaned in closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't do anything!" Tim protested with a wave of his hand. "I was on holiday! How was I supposed to know it was one of Simon Fairchild's favorite vacation spots?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? Where did you even go?!" Martin tried to keep his voice down, but that didn't keep the utter shock from his tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was just at the Skelligs! You know, to see the location where they shot the new Star Wars. Get in some waves, too, maybe some stargazing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And at no point in time did you think that maybe Simon Fairchild might be interested in spots for stargazing?" Martin asked incredulously. "Did you even read the statements on the Daedelus?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You were the one who looked into those, not me," Tim said with heated defense. "And I'm obviously fine, aren't I?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Obviously." Martin gave a huff. "Do you even know how to be careful, Tim? After everything that's happened, if I lost you too I'd--" He cut himself off, biting at his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel a flush creeping over the back of his neck and he studiously turned his head away before it could move higher. Tim didn't need to know how worried he was. It was stupid, really, to fear any kind of loss after he'd lost so much. He was lucky enough that Tim was still willing to be friends with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim let out a soft 'tsk' after a moment, reaching over to give Martin's shoulder a solid pat before pulling away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Martin, I'm fine," he said, his voice lower, softer than before. "He pulled me in--somehow. I was somewhere else, but it was only for a minute or two. That's not even the point. It's about what he said after."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What--what did he say after?" Martin chanced a glance back at Tim to find his attention fixed on a spot on the table, lips pursed in thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He said Elias was 'fond' of him, of Jon," Tim said at length, lips curling over the word with distaste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin gave an echoing frown, his nose wrinkling. "What would that mean...and why would Simon Fairchild know?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know," Tim said with a sigh of defeat. "I just think it might mean that he's got something in store for Basira."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"D'you think we should warn her? Maybe--let her know, so she could keep an eye out?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She deserves to know." Tim huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Honestly, I'd say we should take a line from Gertrude's book on the whole Institute."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think we'd be well out of our depth attempting something like that," Martin said with a heavy amount of incredulity. "You can't just--just take down the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Institute </span>
  </em>
  <span>like that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why can't I?" Tim arched an eyebrow in question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because--because people might get </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tim," Martin stammered in protest. "People who've got nothing to do with whatever Elias might be planning. And we don't even </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> what he's up to!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fervor in Martin's voice gave Tim pause. He met Martin's eyes, silent for a moment before he sighed and gave a reluctant nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine. You're right. Maybe we can find another way to stop it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin settled, soothed to see that Tim had taken his words to heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think we'd need to know what he's planning first," he said, his tone softening. "Maybe--Maybe Basira can help us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah." Tim relaxed back into his chair, thoughtful. "What about Melanie? You think she'd be up for it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know..." Martin hesitated a moment. "I haven't really heard from her."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me neither." Tim gave a shake of his head. "But we weren't all that close."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you're going to talk to Basira, she might know. It seemed like she got on with Melanie fairly well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll keep that in mind." Tim paused, glancing over to the side of their table closest to the wall, his brow furrowing. "Martin. You didn't bring that, did you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did I bring...?" Martin followed his gaze, his eyes landing squarely on a small, inobtrusive tape recorder tucked behind the condiment stand. The recording button was depressed. The wheels turning silently beneath the plastic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What--?!" he jolted, snatching the recorder up as quickly as he could and switching it off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin handed over Basira's number, since Tim hadn't really been in a state to get close to anyone towards the end of his time at the Institute. Tim asked if Martin wanted to talk to her himself, but he'd made some excuse about his new job and long hours. It sounded convincing enough, but Tim wasn't sure that he bought it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He certainly wasn't one to talk when it came to bad coping mechanisms, but he still felt a faint sense of worry pressing at the back of his mind when he saw Martin off at the Tube station that day. It would have been easy enough to ignore it, but he'd spent a lot of time pushing people away, and there wasn't any point in doing that anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira, thankfully, was prompt in her reply and utterly unphased by Tim's request to meet up. She picked a cafe that was far enough away from the Institute to not attract any kind of attention and was sitting there waiting in a corner when Tim arrived. He grabbed a scone and a double shot before sliding into the chair across from her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey," she said. "You're looking better."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't know if that's saying much with where the bar was at last time I saw you," Tim countered with a lopsided grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira just gave a shrug of one shoulder, bringing her drink up to take a sip. "It's still better. You wanted to talk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a statement, not a question. Caught up as he'd been in his own problems, Tim forgot just how to the point Basira could be. He straightened unconsciously in his chair, shifting from casual conversation to ready to get down to business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right. I talked to Martin the other day. About your new title. Congratulations, by the way."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't." Basira pinched the bridge of her nose with a heavy sigh. "I wouldn't have taken it if I'd had a better option."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim lifted an eyebrow in question. "It seemed like Martin, Melanie, and I all had a better option waiting for us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Walking away's not the better option." Basira fixed him with a pointed look. "Not when we didn't know what was really happening there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim leaned forward, both hands curled around his coffee cup. If Basira was already thinking that way, it'd be an easier conversation than he thought. "And who says you have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be there</span>
  </em>
  <span> to figure out what's going on?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Makes sense to start with the scene of the crime," Basira said easily, some of the censure slipping from her gaze. "So you're still interested in figuring it out? Whatever it is that he's up to?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim nodded, his lips drawn tight. "I don't like it. It stinks of something strange. Something--I don't know, something to do with what was happening to Jon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm." Basira gave a soft hum, taking another sip of her drink. "I think you're right. I started out listening to some of the tapes Jon left. The ones he recorded while he was away, and since he got back. I think he was changing more than any of us noticed. It would've been obvious if you were someone keeping an eye on him. But no one made any move to stop it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You think he wanted it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hard to say." Basira sighed, her eyes shut for a moment. "Can't say I really know why it happened yet."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" Tim's eyes narrowed, his lips twisted in a curious frown. "You mean it wasn't just part of the Eye or whatever ruining his life?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If that was it, it would've happened to Gertrude Robinson," Basira pointed out. "But she seemed normal. Or at least, mostly normal."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a fair point. Tim hadn't known the former Archivist very well, but from the impressions he got and what he'd heard on the tapes, she hadn't seemed to be possessed of the same sort of creepy all-knowing powers that Jon had displayed in the weeks leading up to his death. He turned the thought over in his head, trying to make sense of it, but there weren't enough pieces to the puzzle to see the full picture yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira's eyes were on him the whole time, watching. After a moment of silence, she settled back into her chair, giving a slight nod of her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what it is, yet, but I wouldn't mind the help. Doesn't seem right to bring anyone else into it. And you at least know what you're getting into."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Whether we like it or not," Tim said with dry humor and a faint smile. "It's not exactly my day job anymore, but I don't think I'm ready to put this one to bed just yet."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You didn't seem like the type to let something go," Basira said, pressing on before Tim could give any protest. "You said it was just Martin and you, Melanie's not working with you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. "Haven't heard from her. We weren't exactly close."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't think you and Martin were close either," she said, her gaze pinned on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We weren't, either," Tim said with a rough exhale, his mind dragging back to the conversation he'd had with Jon before the Unknowing, the memory of Sasha's fate pressing against his thoughts before he pushed it back down. "But you saw him at the funeral. He was a wreck. He needed </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> to check in on him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine." Basira sighed, her gaze dropping to the table for a moment, one hand moving to worry at the hem of her hijab. "Melanie deserved to get out of there, after what Elias did to her. But it seemed like there might have been something else."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Weren't you close? You didn't keep in touch?" Tim arched an eyebrow in question, pulling off a piece of his scone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Didn't seem right to keep in touch after I took the job." Basira's hands settled around her cup again. "Don't think she'd want to hear from anyone affiliated with the Institute."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fair enough." Tim could see the logic in that. If it hadn't been for his chance encounters, he doubted that he'd want to hear from Basira ever again. "I'll talk to Martin. We'll check in."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira gave a nod of acknowledgement. "If she wants to join in, she's welcome."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll pass it along." Though Tim was dubious as to just how much Melanie would be interested in helping their cause. Still, it couldn't hurt to have her. "Anything else?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira paused, lips pursed, her gaze lifted slightly in thought. "There's one thing. If you need a place to start."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah? What's that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you remember the Joshua Gillespie statement? 1998, I think? The Breekon and Hope delivery."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim scoured his memory for a moment before the statement came to mind. "What, the one with the coffin?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira nodded. "There was a delivery at the Institute the other day. Breekon, no Hope." She paused, drawing in a slow breath. "Daisy's alive. She's inside the coffin."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter Lukas's email came not more than an hour after Martin had gotten home from meeting with Tim several days ago. The information it provided would have been innocuous enough if it had come from anyone else. A time, an address, the access codes needed to get into the building, and a promise that more instructions would be forthcoming on Martin's first day in the office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't bother asking how Peter had gotten his address. Ultimately, it seemed pointless. And it wouldn't really do anything to resolve the cold, empty feeling that settled somewhere over Martin's chest as he re-read the email while pressed in between the faceless masses of morning commuters on the Tube just a week later. He'd made a choice. He was going to stick with it. Better to keep Peter's attention on him. Better to shield Tim and Basira while they dug deeper into the secrets of the Institute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, the address wasn't far from his flat. He found the building easily enough after exiting the nearby Tube station. It was a newer construction, reflective glass all along the front face of the building with a banner advertising cheap offices for rent. Some kind of co-working operation, if Martin had to guess. For freelancers and the like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ducked his head to avoid catching a glance at his reflection in the highly polished glass of the entryway, pressing into a pristine, almost sterile, lobby with a single lift bay. The sounds of the busy street vanished as soon as the door shut behind him, replaced by the soft hum of the vents overhead, pumping chilled air into the space despite the cooler autumn weather outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin felt a shiver creep up his spine, trying to press it down as he stepped forward. The space screamed Peter Lukas all over. The chill, the isolation. It was comforting, in a way, not having to explain himself to anyone else as he pushed the button for his floor on the lift control panel. The doors opened to an empty cab with mirrored walls. His stomach lurched as he caught a glance at his reflection staring back at him before he ducked his head and hurried in. The doors closed behind him, and he was all too grateful when they opened again to an empty hallway several floors up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The halls twisted around him as he made his way to the office number Peter had provided. Frosted glass doors and windows met him on either side, the murmur of voices drowned out by the soft hum of ambient music overhead. Martin wondered if any of the offices really had a view out those impressive glass windows or if it was all for show.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found his office before he had too much time to dwell on the thought. It was a small, cramped thing, big enough for a desk and chair, but little else. The walls were made of the same frosted glass as the hallways, which didn't invite any kind of personalization, not that Martin would have tried. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and sat heavily on the chair. Despite its posh, modern appearance, it wasn't comfortable. He'd just make do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking around the small room, there was a computer monitor and tower set up on the desk. There was a filing cabinet to his right tucked under the desk, its top drawer sitting slightly ajar. Peter wasn't there, as far as Martin could tell, and his instructions had only taken him so far as telling him where to be and when to arrive. With nothing better to do, Martin let his curiosity get the better of him, pulling the cabinet drawer open to peek inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, looks like you're ready to get started," Peter said from right behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin slammed the cabinet door shut with a clang, whirling in the chair to find himself face to face with Peter, who was leaning against the far wall of the small office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You found the place all right?" he asked with a wide, genial smile peeking out from under his beard. "What do you think of the office?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I--yes. It's fine?" Martin stammered, hurrying to catch his breath. "It's fine. It's...a lot different from the Institute."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course." Peter gave a nod. "Just a little business venture of mine. Trying to keep up with the times."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That confirmed Martin's suspicions. He gave a bit of a sigh under his breath. "Right. So...what am I supposed to do?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Research, of course." Peter produced a small packet of folders from within his coat, setting them down on the empty desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin's eyes locked on the familiar folders, the edge of a header peeking from beneath one of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are those--statements?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A few from your Institute," Peter said with a nod. "We're just borrowing them for the time being."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you mean--borrowing? Does Elias know about this?" There were about a hundred warning bells ringing in Martin's head, each of them dredging up the dispassionate, cold judgement that Elias had leveled on him before forcing his mother's hatred into his mind. He swallowed it down, trying to keep his expression carefully neutral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hard to say." Peter gave a nonchalant shrug. "But if he doesn't, I'd rather you not be the one to tell him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wasn't going to tell him," Martin protested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Smart choice," Peter said with a tone that was anything but reassuring. "It'd be for the best if you tried not to mention any of what you find here to anyone else. For their own safety. And yours."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For mine?" Martin frowned, an uncertain lump building at the back of his throat. "You--you never said anything about this being dangerous."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would you have taken the job if I did?" Peter asked with good natured cheer. "No, I do have to keep some secrets. But I promise you, you'll understand once you've had a chance to get started on your research."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You still haven't said what this research is for," Martin said, casting a dubious look back at the stack of statements on the desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I'm sure you'll understand it soon enough. You're a sharp one."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You could just </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell</span>
  </em>
  <span> me." Martin didn't bother hiding the impatience from his voice. He knew he was being toyed with, and even if it was difficult to muster the energy to care, it still left a sour taste in his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If I did, I don't think you'd believe me, not yet. I need you to see it with your own eyes," Peter said, smiling to himself as if he'd made some sort of private joke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin didn't like that expression any better. He sighed, settling back down into the discomfort of the chair. "Fine. I guess I'll just get started."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Excellent. I'd best be off then. I trust you to take care of things here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure." Martin turned back to the statements, picking them up to page through the papers, checking how many Peter had collected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, what should I do when I'm done with--" He turned, but Peter was gone. Martin scowled at the empty air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's really rude, you know," he muttered under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The empty air of the office gave him no reply, except for the faint sound of something mechanical turning, echoing slightly off of metal walls. Martin frowned a moment, trying to place it, before he remembered the filing cabinet. Pulling it open confirmed his suspicions. A tape recorder sat at the back of the cabinet, its wheels spooling on as it recorded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin gave a frustrated huff, reaching for the stop button.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Could you maybe cut it out?" he said, and ended the recording.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim hadn't meant to take the wrong door heading back to his flat. The lift was down for repair, and he rarely used the stairs anyway, so how was he to know the door he'd taken hadn't always been there?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his credit, he'd stopped as soon as he found himself in the naggingly familiar hallway, the carpet spiraling in unnerving fractals, mirrors hung against the gently curving walls. He stepped back to press himself against a door that was no longer there and cursed when he turned to see the hallway stretching out behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Christ, you've got to be kidding me." He grit his teeth, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as a laugh echoed throughout the chambers in reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is a little silly how quickly you fell for that, but I should introduce myself." A distorted woman's voice rose from in front of him. Tim turned to find himself face to face with what looked like a normal woman in a smart suit, taken aback by the unfamiliar sight for a moment. She smiled, fingers curling in a wave, stretching too long with the gesture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello there. Lovely to see you again. You can call me Helen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'd rather call you dead after what happened the last time," Tim spat. "I'm not spending another two weeks in your twisted halls."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh no, I didn't plan on keeping you here that long," Helen said with a pleasant smile. "You see, that was Michael's idea. Michael's door. I think you'll find that mine are rather different."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't really care." Tim's eyes darted to the walls of the hallway, looking for something that might be an escape. A window, a painting, something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You do have a temper on you, don't you?" Helen gave a chuckle, the sound splitting and multiplying in a way that made Tim's head hurt. "You're not really anything like him. Closer to Desolation than Beholding, I'd say."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That caught Tim's attention. His eyes narrowed, attention fixed on Helen. "I don't know what you're getting at, but news flash: I don't work for the Institute anymore."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, and I really am sorry to see the Archivist gone. I felt like he and I had a connection."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then maybe you should have sent flowers," Tim said, biting the words out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I should have, shouldn't I?" Helen brushed the thought away with a chipper smile. "But I suppose it's just as well to help in upholding his legacy. Though you're becoming more of an Archive than an Archivist, aren't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not becoming anything." Tim's hands curled to fists at his sides, his shoulders drawing back. "And I'd recommend getting to the point, before I let myself out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As much as I would like to see you try, it isn't that simple." Helen's smile was thoughtful as her eyes roved up and down over Tim. He felt sized up, like a chunk of meat, or a particularly tasty morsel. It made him want to punch her all the more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You see," Helen continued, oblivious to Tim's growing frustration, "your Archivist was changing, before he left. I had changed too. I thought that we might be able to help one another. Now that he's gone it's left me in a bit of a spot. I could continue on. As I was, tending to what's mine. But I realized that there's some of him in you. Something different. And I'd very much like to see what it becomes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim's stomach twisted with her words. The echoes of resentment for what Jon was becoming before his death hadn't completely faded. As much as Tim found himself twisted up in the web of it, he didn't want to become what Jon had been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen's smile remained fixed in place as the tense silence stretched between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I see it's going to take you some time to consider your options. Not to worry. I can be patient. But if you'd like to talk again, my door is always open."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait--" Tim forced the word out against his better judgement, his mind racing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen tilted her head, her hair falling in a cascade of curls against her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, Archive?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim tensed at the word, his breath caught in his throat. "What do you mean by that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh. You don't know yet?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would I be asking if I knew it?" He gave a rough, demanding gesture of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You could be asking for my perspective. But I think I'll let you form your own opinion on that matter."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought you said you wanted to help," Tim said, his voice sour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I do. But there's certain things I think it's best to find out for yourself." She gave a slight nod, as if she'd made up her mind about something. "Maybe I was a little premature. I'm still glad that we had this talk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not finished with you yet." Tim stepped forward, advancing on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, you're not," Helen said with the hint of laughter bubbling up beneath her words. Ti's body suddenly pitched forward, his foot landing on empty air. "But it looks like you've found your exit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim tried to grab for her, but the world went wrong around him. His vision twisted and spun, nausea pressing at the back of his throat before it cut out as quickly as it started, leaving him tumbling to the ground at the door of his flat. He turned, scanning the hallway for an unfamiliar door, ears straining for that echoing laugh, but the hall was silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hissing a curse under his breath, he stepped into his home and slammed the door behind him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feel free to hit me up on <a href="https://twitter.com/shibaface">Twitter</a> or subscribe to the fic/my AO3 if you like my work!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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